Chapter 38

Brooks

I amthe biggest loser in the history of losers.

It's been five days since Mackenzie rocked my world in the back of my truck, and five days since I've gotten a base hit.

"It's over," I tell my beer.

"Yeah, you're a loser," my beer agrees.

My beer sounds a lot like Rhett.

I squint at the foam at the edges of the amber liquid, then up at the three Rhetts across the two tables from me.

Dude is good. Like, he might be retired from being a dolphin, or a sea otter, or a—a SEAL, that's what he was—but he can still make himself be three people and two tables at once.

I hiccup.

"Nice, dude," the beer says.

We fist-bump, and it spills itself all over my pants.

Fuck.

Am I wearing pants?

I squint at my legs.

Shorts.

Right.

I'm wearing shorts. And my broken Fireball Man thong.

That's what's weird about my junk.

Feels different without the cup on. And when my junk is rolling over and playing dead.

Like Coco Puff. The playing part, I mean. Coco Puff isn't dead, because the universe isn't that cruel.

Though I'm probably dead to Coco Puff for how awful I've played this week.

"Wipe yourself up, doofus." Parker shoves napkins at me, and when I don't take them right away, Rhett, Jack, and Gavin—all eleven of them—tackle my legs and tickle the ever-loving fuck out of me.

The beer tells me I'm on my own, so I do the second-best thing I can do to fighting back.

I praise the baseball gods that I'm not as ticklish as Rhett is, and I start singing.

I don't even know what this song is, I just know I need to sing it right now while I'm flopping around on the ground avoiding the tickles.

"Beeeeer, beer beer beer WHISSSSSSSSSKEY. Whiskey and PIIISSSSSSSSSSKEY. They rhyme on a MIIIIIIIIIIME."

Jack breaks first, crowing and clapping his hands over his ears as he leaps back.

I sing awesome.

Great self-defense.

"I got your back, Jack," Eloise yells, and she leaps on me too, going for that spot under my arms like I actually showered after the game, which I might not've.

I'm in a piss-poor mood.

A weirdly happy piss-poor mood.

I like it, but I don't want to.

Definitely need more singing. "Rum in a blaaaaaaaanket, shoooooooooes in the mooooooooorning."

"Dammit, asshole, I hate that song." Gavin shoves a tortilla in my mouth, because there are always tacos when Parker's around.

I love tacos.

I don't deserve tacos.

Rhett and Eloise are still trying to tickle me, but Rhett suddenly yelps, and then Eloise leaps to her feet.

She's fast for a pregnant chipmunk. Might lose the babies out her pouch if she's not careful.

Are we at the zoo?

When did chipmunks get tattoos?

I don't ask why Mackenzie's ghost is threatening to rip the ultrasound picture that Rhett and Eloise brought here to—Parker's apartment.

Dude.

I'm in my sister's apartment. That's why there are zebra stripes and leopard prints all over.

And unicorns.

What's a leopard unicorn? A leopracorn? A unipard?

"Apologize," Mackenzie's ghost orders.

Fuck it. "I'm sooooooorry I can't hiiiiiiiiiit a balllllllllll," I sing.

If you can call it that.

I'm losing the tune I never had in the first place.

Knox falls off his chair laughing.

I forgot he was here.

Huh. He lives here.

He lives here, with my sister, because they're married, and they're in love, and they're normal—for Parker being an Elliott by birth—and they don't have to worry about how having sex ruins their careers.

Fuck, sometimes they have sex at Parker's office.

I reach for the closest thing I can find and throw it at him.

And because I'm a loser, it goes right through him and bounces off Mackenzie's ghost.

Rhett punches me in the arm. "Bro, don't throw unicorn sex toys at your girlfriend."

If he's gonna be an idiot, I'mma keep on singing. "Knooooox ain't my giiiiiiiiiirlfrriiieeeend."

"Is he drunk?" the angel ghost asks.

I stare at her, because fuck, I miss her, and I really, really want to touch her, but since I can't, and she hates me—even if she says she doesn't when Coco Puff calls—I'm gonna sit here, in a puddle of beer, and watch her until she fades away.

"I think he got into the special brownies Nana brought over yesterday," Knox whispers.

"Oh my god."

Wow.

Hologram Mackenzie sounds exactly like regular Mackenzie would. There's no static or anything.

"Brooks, how many brownies did you eat?"

"Seventy-four."

Parker contradicts me with some number that makes it sound like I'm on a diet, so I flip her off.

I think.

With my toes, maybe? My fingers aren't moving right.

Dude.

I can make the Star Trek sign. What is that saying that goes with it? Drink long and stop her?

No, that's not it.

Drink—live—prosper—froghopper.

I giggle.

"Brooks."

Ghost-hologram Mackenzie touches my arm, and poof!

That part of my body sobers up.

"You have fingers."

She briefly pinches her eyes shut, but she's also pinching her smiling lips shut like ghost-hologram-angel Mackenzie doesn't want to mock me.

She's so sweet.

An angel.

I said that already.

"You're damn lucky weed's legal in baseball now."

"I'm dry."

"You're drunk and high, crazy-ass," Parker says.

I grin. "I know. Drunk-high. Dry. Heh." They need to be serenaded. "I'm soooooooo awesoooooooome."

The ceiling has glitter on it. And it's moving.

Knox leans into my field of view, frowning. "I think Nana needs to tweak her recipe, and I need to throw those brownies out."

"Fucking pregnancy," Eloise mutters. "I want a brownie."

I grab ghost-angel-with-a-body Mackenzie. "Don't tell real Mackenzie I suck."

"Real Mackenzie?"

"The real Mackenzie. The one I love. The one back home, that I'm disappointing because I broke her team."

Shit. I'm making angel Mackenzie cry.

I'm going to hell. Baseball hell. Where I'll never hit a ball again, and my team will always lose because I'm a loser.

"You love me?" she whispers.

"Shh. Don't tell real Mackenzie. I have to win for her first."

"No, you don't."

"Glow said so."

"I'm going to punch Glow in that big-ass glowing butt." She swipes at her eyes, then bends over and kisses me, and huh.

I can touch her. And smell Cracker Jacks. And taste heaven.

"You're real Mackenzie." Shit. Did I say something stupid about duck porn? Or did I just think that?

Doesn't matter.

She's laughing and kissing my face and straddling my stomach, and one of my brothers tells us to get a broom.

And he thinks I'm the drunk one?

"I don't need a broom," I tell Mackenzie.

She buries her face in my neck and shakes with laughter, and maybe it's the beer, or maybe it's the weed, or maybe it's my dick, but something tells me that I still have a shot at scoring tonight.

Either miracles really do happen, or I'm gonna need a lot more of those brownies before this season's over.